Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I lean against the counter across from her, keeping distance between us even though what I really want to do is wrap her up in my arms and hold her tight to my chest and have her cry it out.
“That’s not true. Every decision that I’ve made has been for you. I was going to tell you, and that’s the fucking truth. I can’t make you believe me, but it’s true.”
If only she could understand that I have as little control over what happens as she does.
“Really? When? The night of? While they’re heating the iron? Right before they press it into my skin? Or maybe right before you fuck me in front of your family?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “All of this is so messed up, and I’m scared. Scared of what’s going to happen next, if I’m going to make it through the next Bishop event.”
“You’ll make it. You’re stronger than you think.”
With a scoff, she drains her glass and pours another with trembling hands.
“Fucking Christ. Give me a break. I’m doing my best here.” I’m close to pleading, and I hate it.
“Your best?” She shifts to face me, and I get a closer look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glassy, with dilated pupils. “Are you insinuating that I’m not grateful? Or are you saying this is part of being a Bishop wife, so I should get used to it?”
“Neither.”
“Then explain!” Her voice rises, sharp and cutting. “Because the only thing I know how to do is be afraid, and I don’t want to be afraid.”
What the fuck do I say to that? How do I make this okay for her? I can’t. There is no saving Saint from what has to happen. There is only preparing her and helping her afterward.
“If it were up to me, if I had a choice, Saint, none of this would happen. I don’t want to see you fucking hurt.”
“Stop. Just fucking stop! If I’d wanted to be with you,” Saint continues, words tumbling out faster now, “if I’d chosen this, then maybe I could handle it.” Lifting her hand she slams her glass down hard enough to make the whiskey inside slosh over the rim. “But that’s just the thing, I didn’t choose any of this.”
“Saint—”
“Shut up, Calder.” Her eyes flash, dangerous and bright. “I’m done listening to the lies.” As much as I want to protect Saint, protecting her doesn’t keep her alive. It doesn’t prepare her for what’s going to happen. It makes her soft. It makes it unlikely that she’ll survive, and I can’t lose her.
Snapping, I snarl, “I think you’re forgetting something here. We aren’t in your world anymore, Saint. We’re in mine. I’m doing everything I can to shield you from the worst of it, but I can’t stop all of it. I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust me. I know you feel like everything is out of your control. I fucking understand all of it, and it’s killing me to see you so upset, to know you’re hurting, but I can’t…”
I shake my head and swallow down a wave of bile threatening to rise up when I think of her being branded.
She doesn’t give a fucking inch, though. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be married to you. I never asked for any of this!”
I push off the counter, closing the distance between us in two steps.
Saint’s spine straightens, but she doesn’t back away. Doesn’t flinch. Just meets my eyes with that defiant tilt to her chin that makes me want to kiss her and shake her at the same time.
“When the time comes, I’ll explain it.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Right now, you need to prepare yourself for the branding ceremony. One thing at a fucking time.”
She reaches for the whiskey bottle, and I watch as she pours, as she drinks, as the alcohol does what I can’t—loosens the terror gripping her throat.
After a moment, she interrupts the silence. “What’s the point in waiting?”
“Waiting for what?” I lean in close to catch the scent of her beneath the alcohol, try to gain some kind of control over my emotions, over the hard-on already pressing into my fly.
She’s sexy when she’s angry.
“To have sex.” She’s still close enough that I can smell the whiskey on her breath. “You’ve been talking about how much you want me, but you haven’t done anything. Is it because of this stupid ceremony? Is that the reason you haven’t fucked me?”
Nothing turns me on more than witnessing such a sweet mouth say such filthy words. I don’t think now is a good time to explain because I doubt she would believe me if I told her I want it to mean something. That I want her to want me, not because she was trapped or forced.